


Just a Game

by Phantom_Ice



Series: Phantom's Fire and Ice [5]
Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: Annoyed Danny, Danny Ranting, Gen, Introspection, Martial Arts, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 02:19:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11681985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantom_Ice/pseuds/Phantom_Ice
Summary: Sometimes I wish it could be for me what it is to my enemies. Not a fight, not a problem, not a necessity, not even survival. Nothing but a game, a simple entertaining game.





	Just a Game

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys, I've been writing on fanfiction.net for a while now, and am finally getting around to cross-posting all my stuff here. This particular story is hella old. I normally love constructive criticism... but for this one you're probably better off not even bothering. It's been years. I know the problems. But hey, if you still want to, go ahead. If you notice a consistent problem, point it out. 
> 
> Warnings: Danny comes off as a bit of a jerk, but he's just really fed up. Also, first person for some reason, which I know a lot of you (me included) don't really like in fanfiction. 
> 
> Also, disclaimer: The opinions that Danny expresses are not necessarily my own

I stood in a line of about twelve or so people, ranging drastically in age, height, and most of all, skill. I felt absolutely ridiculous in these white pajamas, shouting out nonsense words and going over deceptively simple movements.

I suppose a little background is in order. My name is Danny Fenton, son of Maddie and Jack Fenton, the former of which is a ninth degree black belt (I know that seems irrelevant right now, but stay with me, we'll get to it), and both of whom practice the self-appointed career of professional ghost hunting. Now, I'll admit this isn't as bothersome a fact as it had been a measly year ago, as now that ghost attacks were a regular, dare I say normal, occurrence, no one really considers them delusional crackpots anymore. Really, anyone who lives in Amity Park and doesn't believe in ghosts is the real crackpot in this situation. However, just because they aren't, in the eyes if the town at least, delusional, it doesn't make them any more competent. Luckily, with all the paranormal occurrences, people tend to turn a blind eye to most of their ('their' meaning mostly my father's) bumbling, in favor of getting something done by actual living humans and not by a certain ghostly teen. A certain ghostly teen named Danny Phantom, who by the way, is also me, not that many people know that particular bit of information.

Anyway, back to my point, a few weeks ago, aforementioned parents found a very much human version of me leaning against a brick wall covered in bruises and scrapes, I suppose it could have been worse– five minutes sooner would have found me passed out with a huge gash on my head– but for them what they found was enough. They promptly decided that I needed to learn how to defend myself, and so, here I was exactly one week later, standing at the end of a line of people in various decidedly completely non-threatening poses learning some foreign martial art with a name that surely meant something to someone somewhere, but to me sounded like gibberish as foreign languages were bound to do.

It didn't take long for me to decide these people know absolutely nothing about staying alive. First off, these stiff white pj's are not conducive in any way to actual combat. I supposed the sleeves are okay, but all the pants do is get stuck on my knees, making kicking rather difficult, and the way the shirt wraps around most certainly does not encourage a full range of motion, not even a normal human one, and most certainly not mine. Okay, so I know what you're probably thinking, I should be one to talk. I fight in a hazmat jumpsuit of all things, an outfit that was made assuming the person wearing it would be sitting virtually motionless for an over extended period of time, perhaps taking minor strolls around radioactive toxins, and most certainly not fighting for his life every other hour. My suit is different though. Don't ask me about my parents, I have no clue how they fight in the things, but for me, my jumpsuit is more of an extension of myself than anything else. For example, I've recently started growing. In just the past three months I grew four inches and put on a bit of bulk. It isn't a whole lot, and it isn't even noticeable in my normal clothes, but believe me when I say you can't hide anything under hazmat (a fact that Tucker, to the extreme embarrassment of myself and for some reason Sam, is not afraid to point out quite a bit more than I appreciate).

I'll admit, at first I was worried about growing, the last thing I needed was to grow out of an outfit that I couldn't take off, so imagine my surprise when the suit grew with me. I don't mean it stretched to accommodate, I mean it is actually a bigger size now than it was when I got it, it grew in accordance with the rest of my body, as if it were part of it, a second skin if you will. In addition, if I was, per say, and this is, of course, a purely hypothetical situation, having my arm twisted straight backwards through my stomach, a movement that no one takes into account when designing any form of clothing, my jumpsuit changes to accommodate the movement, whether or not it has enough material to bend that way or not. I suppose that does explain the fact that I have no problem with the suit getting in the way of my spectral tail or any other form of spectral manipulation, I just never thought about it until my recent growth spurt. The point is, that isn't the case with this cardboard armor. I know for sure that it is one of the last things, barring handcuffs or over excessive jewelry (I've done both, don't ask), that I'd ever want to get into a real life or death fight in. Lucky I have an automatic change of clothes for whenever the need arises.

Back in the present, the instructor shouted out another word in the language and everyone moved into another stiff form. I stumbled as I tried to copy the movement as best I could, looking gangly and completely uncoordinated next to everyone else. Just because I fight a lot doesn't automatically make me some kind of martial arts master. As Phantom, if I see an opening to kick I don't worry about my posture or whatnot, I kick. If I see a punch headed my way I can tell you right now I don't worry about any type of fancy blocking, I get out of the freakin' way or risk a broken arm. Obviously, these people have never been in any fight with stakes like mine.

The most annoying are the younger so called 'advanced' students. Some are just eight-year-olds who had done this from the day they were born and, honestly, have no clue. Just looking at their flimsy movements I knew they could never hold up in an actual fight, they would be destroyed unless I, a kid at the bottom of the class, saved them. Even the older ones who were much more solid and practiced would never last with all their fancy premeditated movements. You can't just make a form for a predetermined battle sequence, the enemies were going to do what they wanted no matter what you do. By the end of the long hour, I decided that the whole concept was a complete waste of time in the world of street fighting.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that one of the higher levels couldn't easily whip my human butt, and even my ghost half would have a very difficult time against a real master (that is if they had any trace of ectoplasm and could actually harm me with a punch), but ultimately, in an 'honest' to god fight to the death, I would win. Why? Because I'm not so caught up in posture to abandon an enemies' opening because I can't get myself fancily situated around it, because if I saw a punch hurtling towards my face, I wouldn't worry about bracing myself, I would get the hell out of the way and avoid the arm I might have otherwise been using as a flesh shield becoming a shattered mess, because I wasn't so caught up in regality that if an opponent was hit, I would presume he didn't let me do it on purpose in order to get a better angle. That last one is especially important, and at first I didn't understand it at all. The person who finally taught me the lesson that would come to save my hide over and over was, of all people, Vlad.

I don't think it's necessary to point out that Vlad and I are very different people, and, as such, we have very different fighting styles. Vlad, despite his pompousness and arrogance, is not like the 'professionals' in that he's all caught up in order, regality, and unity, but he isn't like me either. Vlad doesn't fight for glory like they do, he doesn't fight to live and protect like I do, he doesn't even fight to win, he fights to make sure his adversary loses. I couldn't understand this at first, and it took me a while to comprehend that you winning, and making sure your enemy was losing were two very different things, I know it doesn't sound like to makes sense, but just trust me on that one. I eventually caught on when I realized that a significant amount, okay, I'll admit it, all, the fights I 'won' against Plasmius resulted in him ultimately getting the last laugh. Vlad doesn't fight like it's a basic art like the people in the martial arts, but Vlad doesn't fight like a street kid struggling to survive either, Vlad fights like... he's playing chess. It was from him I learned that not every time you land a punch you have a victory, it was from him I learned that if I intend to live, I was going to have to incur a bit of pain. Believe it or not, letting yourself get hit in a fight can gain you a huge advantage if done correctly. I, of all people, know this with how many times the same move had been used against me, mostly by Plasmius himself. No, for Vlad fighting isn't a method of survival, it isn't even an art, no, for him, it's a game. A game of skill, cunning, and effort, but a game none the less.

I envy him for that. Sometimes... sometimes I wish I could fight like that, fight like I'm in a game of chess, use strategy and cunning and always be in control, managing to gain the upper hand with minimal damage to myself- but I can't. It isn't for lack of physical ability, though, it's from simple mental impossibility. I am the hero, I can't take the fall and hide out in some cave somewhere for the next twenty years plotting out my retaliation *cough, cough* because if I fall, people fall with me. I can't let myself lose as means to an end because if something goes even the slightest bit wrong, everything I ever knew is in jeopardy. I can't fight the smart way, like it's a game of chess, like it's just a simple game, because when I fight my game isn't chess, it's roulette, Russian roulette. Everything... or nothing. I suppose this is how I know I can never join Vlad. As much as I want to learn some semblance of control over myself, as much as I want to have the upper hand just every now and again, I can't. Because if I ever want the upper hand, I'm going to have to learn to sacrifice a few pieces here and there. That right there is the problem, because, unlike Vlad to whom everyone's a pawn, as far as I'm concerned, on my board there's only a single piece: me. And if I go down, everything else comes down with me. Game Over.

**Author's Note:**

> Again, Danny's opinions do not necessarily reflect my own.  
> No offense intended to anyone who takes any type of martial art, I myself take one and I absolutely love it. This is just what I imagine Danny's views might be on being forced to take one when he's already in a stressful situation, and where his thoughts would lead him, really the second part's the main point.


End file.
